that dance?-- She reddened. Why did such thoughts come to one? Life
was quite difficult enough without these unbidden, scathing fancies. She
tried to put on a natural, easy expression. As is always the case, this
gave her face a strained look--the look of one "sitting" for a
photograph.

On his side, Loring's had an expression that Sophy was only too familiar
with--but until now, she had never seen it on _his_ face. It was the
pale, black-eyed, fixed expression of a man who has taken too much to
drink, without being in the least "drunk." Sophy could not tell what it
was she felt at that moment. It was like the pang of a strange sickness.
And again it was like a blow on an old wound. The old and new wound
seemed bleeding together in her breast. She tried to pass him with a
smile.

"It's all hours of the night.... I'm simply dropping with sleep...." she
said, her voice, at least, natural enough.

He planted himself in her way. His hands were deep in his pockets. His
white, fixed young face was dropped a little. He looked up at her stilly
from under the beautiful arch of his brows that she so loved.... They
always reminded her of Marlowe's lovely expression "airy brows." Now
they lowered like clouds over the bold, still eyes.

"I say, Selene," he blurted, enunciating his words very clearly. "Let's
have it ... and get done with it...."

"What, Morris?"

"The wigging you've got in pickle for me.... Mixing my metaphors, too,
ain't I?... There's another grievance for you.... Poetess as well as
goddess will take umbrage now...."

Sophy hated being called "poetess." That Morris should call her
"poetess" seemed the last touch of irony. She stood looking at him
gently.

"I haven't got a 'wigging' in store for you," she said. "Why are you
angry?"

"Why are _you_ angry?... But, there, that's poppycock--my asking that. I
know devilish well why you're angry. It's because I danced that
Alcibiades thing.... Well--you told me to, didn't you?"

Sophy hesitated. Then she said frankly:

"It's true I didn't like it, Morris. But that oughtn't to vex you." Her
voice trembled suddenly. "When a woman loves a man as I love you--she
can't bear to ... to see him ... like that."

"Make a fool of himself, you mean?"

Sophy went close and put her hand on his breast.

"Morris...." she said, "are you trying to quarrel ... with _me_, dear?"

Her tone was lovely as she said this. "He's so young ... so young...."
she was telling herself